I Watched a Man Die in Prison. His Last Words Haunt Me.
“There is hardly a day that passes when I do not see his face.”
In 1993, California’s Pelican Bay State Prison was one of the worst prisons in the country. Violence permeated the place, the smell of blood literally filling the air. The main yard was even divided into four sections by chain-link, razor-wire fences, so that whenever something happened, the fallout would be confined to a limited number of inmates.
On that particular day, the rain had stopped, allowing the sun to shine—a rare thing at such a dark place, where the average yearly rainfall was 71 inches. It was strange for me not to be with my homeboys enjoying the warmth, and the safety in numbers.
Instead, I found myself watching a poker game at
